


four outtakes from the desert (none of which really involve food)

by Satan In Purple (purple_satan)



Category: Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations RPF, Queens of the Stone Age RPF
Genre: Bromance, Gen, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-13
Updated: 2011-08-13
Packaged: 2017-10-22 14:19:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/238953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_satan/pseuds/Satan%20In%20Purple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“May all your fights be victorious, Anthony Michael Bourdain,” Josh toasts. “And may I never piss you off enough to find my shot glass lodged in my throat.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	four outtakes from the desert (none of which really involve food)

**Author's Note:**

> christ, what the hell is wrong with me. this was pointless, but totally fun to write. pinning down exactly the flavor and taste of tony’s snark was a chore, albeit a fun one to try. also, josh calling anthony “T.Bo” is wholly of my own creation.

i. pappy’s & harriets (or how J.Ho and I nearly fought a man just to say we did it)

The second I walk in, Tracey and my camera crew trailing behind me, I realize Pappy & Harriet's is _exactly_ the type of place where you expect to get the shit kicked out of you if you look at someone a second too long, so it’s no shocking surprise it’s one of Josh’s favourite watering holes in the area. He looks almost comically out of place in his plaid shirt and absence of non-ironic hatwear (he’s the only pretty little redhead in the entire joint, I later tell him at the bar earning me a saucy wink), but still somehow fits in all the same with the other burly looking dudes seated at the bar.

He introduces me to the staff of Pappy’s while the crew sets up for filming when a guy comes up to me, one of those crazed types, you can see it in their eyes that they aren’t going to ask you for a book signed and leave it be, having the audacity to totally dismiss Josh in the process. At first he laughs, backs up a bit and watches the exchange placidly, but after it gets to the point past exchanging of pleasantries, me signing shit and doing my dues , whatever, he none too politely cuts in when I start getting visibly antsy, telling the local to beat it so we can finish filming and bounce.

And then the guy gets in his face, _of course,_ because it just wouldn’t be a proper episode without a barfight. Clearly.

Un-phased, Josh then made his point rather clear by wrapping one of his calloused hands around the guys larynx, earning them both the attention of a humongous, surly looking dude who I wasn’t introduced to (and I can’t say I’m heartbroken because the dude looks like he could crush the bones in my fist as easily as a satline cracker) and clearly must be the bouncer at the joint.

I watch the exchange between the three from the bar with keen interest, finally relaxing my iron tight grip on my own glass when Josh sits back down, wiping his hands on his jeans and grinning ear to ear at me.

“Kinda was looking forward to a good, old fashioned barfight for the night,” he says, trying his best to sound disappointed as he flags the bartender down for desperately need drinks.

“No kidding. I was getting ready to break my beer glass across that dude’s skull and then jab the jagged remnants into his fucking neck when he came at you.”

“That’s touching Tony, really.” He laughs dryly, cracking his knuckles in anticipation for what I don’t exactly know, maybe the promise of future adrenaline and bloodshed.

And then the bottle of tequila arrives with two shot glasses. He racks up the shots for us, the clink of glass on glass being drown out by the hubbub of patrons around us who have moved on from the small bit of drama earlier and onto whatever it was they were doing before, and we drink to the upcoming days and wherever they may take us.

“May all your fights be victorious, Anthony Michael Bourdain,” he toasts. “And may I never piss you off enough to find my shot glass lodged in my throat.”

And then its the sharp, peppery initial burn of the agave, followed by the earthy flavours of a good tequila going down, reminding me both of coming home (but to where exactly?) and of the parched desert landscape surrounding us for some reason.

  
  


ii. tequila (lots of it)

And then there is tequila.

And, of course, more tequila. As the trite song goes, I decide to emulate partying like a rockstar.

(And then we finally get back to Rancho de la Luna impossibly late, and _dear Holy Mother of Fuck,_ I’m at least 70% sure no one has slipped me drugs (yet) and I’m not hallucinating when I see it, an honest to God, fucking _tree_ of tequila.)

  
  


iii. modern day outlaws & the open road (oh, and fuck you, sheryl crow)

There’s the freeform poetry of the colour, shape and smell of the vast open road ahead of us, the purr of the thunderbird’s engine surrounding us and I am most certainly still drunk off of all that _delicioso_ tequila we consumed come the next morning, wincing painfully in the bright sunlight only the desert seems to have even with glasses on, while slouched not-so comfortably in the T-bird’s passenger seat.

And I’m hungry (I’m always hungry), but it’s especially urgent in nature when tequila and bile are the only things sloshing around in my belly I can currently feel.

My companion seems un-phased as ever, shifting gears, and tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to some song in his head he might grace us with it later tonight if it coalesces, maybe not. Upon further reflection, it might not even be a song.

Lighting a cigarette, he passes the pack to me wordlessly despite my well-known current status of non-smoker, and I break down and accept, fumbling with my friend’s borrowed lighter before that delicious taste is in my mouth, consuming my senses, while Josh turns the knobs on the car’s stereo, flipping between mariachi and static until resting on something slow and twangy that is vaguely promising, a song that could be something out of a western duel, fit for gunslingers, outlaws, rebels.

Right now it fits perfectly as our soundtrack as we travel down Joshua Tree’s main roads and Josh waxes poetic about his hometown like someone who is truly proud of it. To someone so jaded, who has a constant desire to change scenery, to move around, its beautifully captivating to hear and the exact shit I hope to capture in this trip.

 _The heart and soul of the California desert, it’s chest flayed wide open, heart still beating for everyone to see and I can stick my hands in so I can get to the bloody, visceral bits._

(I’m totally content with this metaphor until I get elbowed out of my reverie.)

“Hey, T.Bo, Here you go. Here’s your song, man. I’ll even cover it for you. Use it in the opening credits or some shit,” Josh grins, and I perk up a bit, trying to catch the song, until I hear him start crooning _every day is a winding road…_

What the fuck.

Josh is still singing, obnoxiously now, because sometimes he can be the consummate obnoxious bastard ( _I get a little bit closer to getting high?_ ), and yeah that’s about what I wish was going on right now to cure this headache.

  
  


iv. the integratron (or how Josh might have found God, if only for a moment )

We stand outside of the integratron after the cameras have turned off, the quiet click of Josh’s lighter and the snapping of dried scrub brush underneath our footfalls the only soundtrack to life currently. The collar of Josh’s obnoxious plaid shirt flaps wildly in a hot gust of wind and it’s one of those times where my companion is deathly quiet, his stature and build impossibly imposing and slightly surreal even to me, as he walks a little less like the enlightened and a little more like someone with the loose swagger of a rockstar, comfortable and cocksure on home turf.

“Did you really find God in there?” I finally asks once we are out of earshot of the owners, squinting at him skeptically and scuffing my boot into the gritty, desert sand. I keeps in step with Josh’s confident strides, inhaling the delicious aroma of nicotine I shouldn’t keep having as Josh smokes, desperately trying to not trip over my own feet while doing my part of charity to the desert by avoiding tramping down a sparse patch of cholla as much as possible.

“Fuck yeah, man. With the reverb on those bowls and the walls,” he nods, brushing a lock of hair back into place and staring off into the impossibly blue horizon before amending his prior statement. “A god anyway. My brain got tuned into _something.”_

He takes an impossibly long drag off his cigarette before giving me a smile, long and slow, and not unlike the same one he wore at Pappy’s after the near-miss of a barfight. It’s wickedly predatory, and probably a little unnerving to other people, people who don’t meet dangerous people in dangerous places all the time.

 _To me though, it’s just another smile._

“We should do shit like this for the show more often.”

I see a bemused eyebrow raise in reply to my statement, like I just tried to pass him off a crock of gold-plated shit as a fucking family heirloom. “Totally hippy-dippy. Terrible for ratings, good for rock and roll documentaries though. I’m thinking a, like, Natural Born Killers-kind of vibe, with trippy music, psychedelics and all that shit.”

“Killer movie,” Josh deadpans, stubbing out his cigarette, and we enjoy the moment for what it’s worth, beautiful blue sky overhead, deep russet coloured sand below, sparse patches of green sagebrush, cholla, and the occasional yucca from which the area is named dotting the horizon. It’s the flinty smell of the dry summer heat, tequila, charred roadhouse food, and miles and miles of desolate quiet around us.

It’s a peaceful place, one of reflection, meditation even (if that’s your thing). It’s exactly the kind of place you go to get away and I _get_ it, I do.

Josh clears his throat after a couple minutes pass, the camera crew having already packed up, Tracey chattering on her cellphone while the rest of us (myself included) are obediently waiting for directions to our next destination I’m pretty sure only he knows.

“So where do you want to go sightseeing next, T.Bo?”

“Anywhere with food that gets us out of here. I‘m fucking hungrier than a fat man the day after Lent.”


End file.
